Cabbage Under Her Arm

Cabbage Under Her Arm

       By Twelve Years in Postsecondary School

              Strike while the iron is hot.

“In lieu of money, I will give you . . . ” Lionel said, and could not think of anything he could hand over to Haman. Haman lived with Corona Belle Davis whose apartment had finally come available when the landlord had declared that he had had enough of her extemporary renovations. Lionel was down on his luck. All that his father had given him he had squandered at billiards in North Kildonan, gambling at the Regency Casino, fancy dinners for groups of friends in eateries such as Café del Sol on south Osborne, and more recently with the purchase of the motor launch tied on the Forks’ slips under bank orders not to even start the engines.

       Corona Belle Davis had been employed as a heavy machine mechanic till a year ago when her pregnancy brought her the care of two girls, one of whom died after two weeks. She’d stopped going to work, though the garage called every morning till they’d had enough, too. She’d spent her savings and then received welfare, but she lived in a space that the agency declared too expensive. Now, for these two reasons, she would be moving into a one bedroom apartment on Westminster near the Balmoral school for girls. As Lionel and Haman spoke, Corona could be seen on the front porch nursing Wendy Lou. She sat there in the shade many hours a day, calling out now and then to a passerby that this or that had happened to the little girl that day. She kept no pets, dogs and cats proliferating in the neighborhood as they did, and that, at least, had postponed the day of her having to give up her suite.

       Haman had met Corona in Montreal where she’d gone on three months vacation three years ago. He had decided to move in with her in Winnipeg since he had used up all his friendships out east. Unemployed, he spent much of his time indoors reading the papers or outdoors engaging with whoever walked by. He could always be found somewhere near Corona, though they seldom spoke to each other. He was not interested in returning to Iran, he had told her, but she guessed that one day she would have to go there to find her daughter. In Montreal he had tried to strangle another Iranian over an argument concerning his manhood. In prison for a year, he had immediately, on his release, left that city for life with the woman who had borne his child. His wife he left out east with their two school-aged children, telling Corona that under no circumstances would he ever have anything to do with that woman again.

       “You do own a car,” Haman said and looked toward the old Toyota that Lionel had parked a block away. Lionel kept his mother at his house and they made do with the strangeness of the need for her to be helped at every step of the way. He bathed her, and toileted her, even. Not pleasant, he said to people, but just one of those unexpected you get used to. His mother had been a marksman and won prizes and trophies. These hung on the walls of her room and filled the bookshelves in the house. Thieves had recently broken in and taken most of her firearms. She would soon die, Lionel thought, out of grief for the loss. Her housecoat hung open at odd times and she did not think to close it. Her teeth stayed in the glass in the bathroom all day sometimes, for she ate little now and really did not need them. At night, about once a week, he would find her wandering around inside, and even outside now and then. Winter would not be kind to her. Lionel had bought her a Winchester 30-30 and put it in a prominent place above a trophy shelf, but she only sighed.  He resigned himself to her leaving him.

       Corona walked toward them and took the baby from her breast. She said to Haman that he might go to the corner grocery and pick up some vegetables for curry. Haman pointed to Lionel’s ring. It was a diamond he had received from his Uncle Conivington when he turned twelve. His uncle was dead now, but when he lived he thought highly of his third nephew and spent lavishly on him. Lionel said that he would come back tomorrow and see what he had that he could part with. He wanted the apartment very badly indeed and thought that he might have to decide between car and ring, but could of course not in an instant make up his mind. Corona walked to the grocery on the corner herself, carrying Wendy Lou in one arm. She came back almost immediately with a cabbage tucked under her free arm. She passed them both without acknowledgement. Haman pointed to Lionel’s wallet and asked how much he had in it. Lionel said he had nothing in it but some change.

       “Let’s go for a beer,” Lionel said. They left the Sherbrooke an hour later and Lionel said he would be back next morning at ten. When he got there, Haman, Corona and Wendy Lou had gone and a moving truck stood in front of the apartment. Furniture was already being dollied in by the Two Small Men With Big Hearts.